Ms Nash
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: Craig's father and Ellie's mother meet in a bar and they oddly hit it off.
1. Chapter 1

Albert Manning loosened his tie and walked into his empty house. Craig's absence was evident everywhere he looked. Nothing was messed up, no drinks left to stain the delicate wooden tops of the tables. No sneakers kicked into a corner, his jacket casually laid on the back of a chair. No loud music from upstairs, no blaring T.V. and rock videos.

He sighed, and shut the door behind him. He couldn't believe how much he missed those things. They used to make him so angry, so out of control. He pressed his lips together. He owned this. Craig wasn't here because of his actions.

His appetite wasn't what it had been. During the day he forced down a bland sandwich from the hospital cafeteria. In the morning he had coffee, maybe a slice of toast. He couldn't bring himself to eat dinner. His clothes were becoming looser. If he didn't watch it he'd have to get a new wardrobe.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the side of his nose near his eyes. Craig. How could he have been so out of control? How could he think his actions wouldn't have consequences? It didn't make sense, his thinking. As a doctor he knew the consequences of so many actions. This didn't translate to his own life, apparently. Hadn't he seen the fear in his son's face? Hadn't he seen the quick flinch away from him? Hadn't he heard the nervous stutter? What had he been thinking?

He shook his head, trying to believe that he'd get him back. This was only while they sorted it out, as Craig had said. Sorted it out. It had been months and he hadn't so much as spoken to his son. He'd gone to work and come home, trying not to think, much less feel. He hadn't made one step in the right direction. Maybe Craig was happier with Joey, his wife had certainly been.

Instead of staying home he decided he'd go out and have a drink. Be around other people, hear their conversations drifting over him. Feel like a member of the human race again. That's what he'd do.

Out the door, back into his nice car, and he drove to the nearest bar. He stepped inside, the lighting diffuse and comfortable, the murmury babble of the conversations almost soothing. He sat at the gleaming bar and ordered a martini.

"Scotch on the rocks," a woman said, sitting next to him. She had pale skin and brown hair, a silk green shirt that picked up the light.

"That's a serious drink," he said, sipping his own, thinking how he never talked to strange women in bars. Or women in strange bars. This was a strange time.

"Yeah, well, I'm in a serious mood," the woman said, and he nodded. He knew all about serious moods.

Her drink arrived, and he looked at the odd almost golden color of the scotch, the way it seemed to melt around the ice cubes. He could smell it, that strong pungent odor. She stirred it with the little red straw and then brought it to her lips. She had big pale green eyes, a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked like she could almost be a red head, except for the light mousy brown hair. So different from how his wife had looked. He could close his eyes and call her face up in an instant. Julia. Dark hair, long and curly, wide spaced hazel eyes just like Craig's.

She wasn't skinny, either. She looked like she could bench press anything she wanted to, pick up a boulder and heave it across a field. Julia had been so delicate, so curvy, lithe. Breakable.

"A table just opened up. Want to grab it?" the woman said, and he looked over in the direction of her gaze. There was an empty table for two by the window. Out the window he could see the orange halogen glow of the parking lot lamps, the wet pavement, cars sliding into vacant spaces.

"Uh, sure," he said, and felt himself sounding like his son. This woman and her gruff exterior, gruff way of speaking, she surprised him. She wasn't the type of woman he would ordinarily talk to.

They picked up their drinks and headed over, and she carried herself with a confidence he admired. Julia hadn't been quite like that, especially toward the end of their marriage. He remembered her lowered head, the tears always trembling in her eyes.

"Married?" she said, looking at his fingers. There was no wedding ring, only an expensive pinky ring. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, no. You?"

"Yeah," she said, then shrugged, "but I don't think I will be for long,"

He swirled his olive around the bottom of his triangle glass. It occurred to him that he didn't even know this woman's name.

"I'm Albert, by the way," he said, and she nodded, sipped her scotch.

"I'm Caroline. Caroline Nash,"

"Well, Ms. Nash, why don't you think you'll be married for long?" he was on his second drink, and honestly didn't drink that much. Drinking made him feel out of control, and he already felt that enough. So these two martini's had effected him, and he felt more willing to ask strange women strange questions.

"This, for one," she said, holding up her own second drink and shaking the ice cubes in it. They made a jittery, almost frosty sound, "and the second thing is he's going off to war, how male," she laughed harshly, not caring that he himself was male. Or maybe she just didn't care what he thought, and he found himself liking that.

"The third thing is my daughter Eleanor. I don't know. She's a daddy's girl, which is fine with me. He doesn't like my drinking, which is also fine with me. So he's jaunting off to have a fun little war and maybe blow some things or people up, and she's a sullen little goth girl who is up to something, something disturbing and teenage, no doubt. I just don't know what," She smiled, and he could see by the glaze in her eyes that she was getting drunk.

"I have a teenager, too. A son," he said, and he liked Caroline's negative view of herself. Lately he had a pretty negative view of himself. He didn't know if he could stand to be around someone positive and god forbid upbeat.

"Oh yeah? Does he go to Degrassi? He probably knows my daughter if he does,"

"Uh, yeah, he does," he said, and he thought of how he had hardly seen Craig since he started going there, and he had no idea who he knew.

"What grade is he in? Eleanor's in grade nine,"

"He's in grade nine as well. His name is Craig," He said that to see if he would see recognition in her eyes. If she knew Craig than she probably knew more about his current life than he did. He sipped his martini down to the very last drop. That was sad.

"Well, maybe they know each other. I wouldn't know. Eleanor never brings anyone home, and she never talks to me about anything. She could be going to Montreal everyday and hanging out with the French prostitutes for all I know,"

Albert nodded, raised his hand to the waitress to get another drink. Caroline's eyes lit up in the peculiar way of the alcoholic when more alcohol was imminent. He narrowed his eyes at her. She was most likely an alcoholic. He saw enough of them. The older ones had tremendous health problems.

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly father of the year, either," he said, and laughed a dry short laugh. Caroline laughed, too, and emptied her drink into her mouth.

"Oh no? Why not? What sins have you committed?" she said, and he looked down, thinking how unknowingly accurate her words were. He could see Craig looking at him, not just scared but terrified. Sins. He cleared his throat again.

"Um, well, I've lost my patience," he said quietly, and she laughed again, throwing her head back.

" 'Lost your patience,' I like that. It's a nice way to put things. I guess I've lost my patience, too. If I ever had any. You know what, Albert? I like you. You're in pain. I can see it. Just like me. 'Lost your patience,' Christ. It's just, you know, I never thought things would be like this, did you? I mean, did you honestly ever think things would be like this?"

He shook his head. He honestly didn't. Did he ever think his wife would cheat on him with a _used car salesman?_ No. Did he think that she would leave him for him? No. Did he think she'd ever have a child with someone else? Did he think she'd die so young of the cancer he should have seen? But he hadn't seen anything, certainly not in time. Did he think he'd beat his only child so badly that he would leave him, too? No. Not in a million years.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a long time since he brought a woman home. He thought Caroline had drank a lot, but she seemed to be holding her own. His head was swimming, however.

"Jesus, Albert! This is a nice house! What did you say you did again?" she said, leaning into him as they walked from the driveway to the front door.

"I'm a surgeon," he said, knowing how this impressed people, especially drunk women from bars.

"Well, oh my. A surgeon. That is the shit," She didn't sound particularly impressed. He didn't care. It wasn't impressive. All he could think of most days was the silence of his house.

"Night cap?" she said, following him through the front door. He quickly disarmed the alarm and flipped on the lights. They were recessed and cast a faint glow on the hardwood floor.

"Sure," he said, leading the way into the kitchen. She sat heavily in one of his kitchen chairs. He took out two heavy shot glasses and filled them with aged scotch.

She took hers and raised it to her lips, downed it in one swallow.

"So where's your kid? Out on the town?" she said. He took his shot glass in a slightly shaking hand and tossed it back, felt the scotch burning down his throat.

"I don't actually know. He doesn't live here,"

"Oh. He lives with your ex-wife?" Caroline's green shirt shined dully in the lights of the kitchen, and where it picked up the light it seemed to glow white. Her skin was pale, the freckles more visible here than at the bar.

"No. She's dead,"

"Oh my god. How did she die?" He thought for an instant that Caroline thought he had killed her, and truthfully he had come close a few times. But she'd escaped him, just as Craig had.

"Cancer. Craig, my son Craig, he lives with her husband. Former husband, I guess. Dead people aren't married. Death do you part,"

Caroline looked at her empty shot glass like she wanted to lick it, and she looked up at him with her clear green eyes.

" 'Death do you part,' Nice. You have a stark way of putting shit, Albert. I like it. You're extreme, I can tell. Dangerous. That's attractive to a woman. At first. I'll bet you were a bastard to live with. My husband, he's nice. Wishy washy nice. I'm too much for him. I'm the bastard. So Craig lives with the former husband of your wife and not you? Why?"

He wasn't really drunk but it was a close thing. He didn't think he'd puke but he knew he'd have one bitch of a headache in the morning.

"I beat him," There, he said it. He'd denied it in his own head up and down, denied it when Craig confronted him with it. He remembered the three choices Craig had laid out for him, the way he had looked down at him from the top of the stairs. His voice, the way he sounded and the way he looked, so sad and serious. 'There are three choices, dad,' he'd said, 'I can call Children's Aid right now, I can go and stay with Joey while we sort this stuff out, or I can stay here and let you beat me,' And he remembered his immediate protest, 'I don't _beat_ you,' He'd never forget Craig's look of resigned disgust.

"Beat him? God, I've wanted to beat Eleanor so many times. Did it feel good?"

He closed his eyes. Yeah, for the first seconds, yeah. It had felt good. All that anger and frustration with no where to go and Craig disobeying, disregarding every rule that was set up for his own good. He remembered how it had just infuriated him, enraged him, how Craig could get under his skin and push his buttons and just make him snap. When he'd finally let go and grab him and shove him to the ground, the force exploding from every pore, yeah, it felt good. It was after, the bitter taste of recrimination like bile in his mouth. The guilt coming in endless waves. Seeing Craig's looks of fear, his caution, his flinching away, jerking away and he knew Craig couldn't help it. It was conditioned. That's when he lamented his lack of control, his poor judgment. His inability to effectively deal with frustration. Parenting was hard, especially alone. And he'd failed. And Craig was gone.

"It, at first, kind of. But it was, the guilt…I can't really describe it. I loathe myself," He looked down. He could see his reflection in the glossy wood of the table.

"Yeah, man, I know that feeling. I drink. I drink every day and I see what it's doing to Eleanor. Is that enough to get me to stop? No way. So what's worse? Beatings or neglect? I don't know. You always end up fucking up these kids one way or the other,"


End file.
